 CHAPTER 15 Whether the day its wanted course renewed, or midnight virgils wrapped the world in shade, her tender task assiduous she pursued to soothe his anguish, or his wants to aid, Blacklock. I wonder, said Miss Peacout, as she leaned both her hands on the sill of the front window, and looked up and down the street, a habit in which she indulged herself for about ten minutes after she had washed up the breakfast things, and before she trimmed the solar lamp. I wonder who that slender girl is that walks by here every morning, with that feeble-looking old man leaning on her arm. I always see them at just about this time, when the weather and walking are good. She's a nice child, I know, and seems to be very fond of the old man, probably her grandfather. I notice she's careful to leave the best side of the walk for him, and she watches every step he takes. She needs to, indeed, for he taught her sadly. Poor little thing, she looks pale and anxious. I wonder if she takes all the care of the old man. But they are quite out of sight, and Miss Peacout turns round to wonder whether the solar lamp doesn't need a new wick. I wonder, said old Miss Grumble, as she sat at her window a little further down the street, if I should live to be old and infirm. Mrs. Grumble was over seventy, but as yet suffered from no infirmity but that of a very irritable temper. I wonder if anybody would wait upon me, and take care of me, as that little girl does of her grandfather. No, all warrant not. Who can the patient little creature be? There, look, Belle, said one young girl to another, as they walked up the shady side of the street on their way to school. There's the girl that we meet every day with the old man. How can you say you don't think she's pretty? I admire her looks. You always do manage, Kitty, to admire people that everybody else thinks are horrid-looking. Horrid-looking, replied Kitty, in a provoked tone, she's anything but horrid-looking. You notice now, Belle, when we meet them. She has the sweetest way of looking up in the old man's face and talking to him. I wonder what is the matter with him. Do you see how his arm shakes, the one that's passed through hers? The two couples are now close to each other, and they pass in silence. Don't you think she has an interesting face? said Kitty, eagerly, as soon as they were out of hearing. She's got handsome eyes, answered Belle. I don't see anything else that looks interesting about her. I wonder if she don't hate to have to walk in the street with that old grandfather, trudging along so slow, with the sun shining right in her face, and he leaning on her arm, and shaking so he can hardly stand on his feet. I wouldn't do it for anything. Why, Belle, exclaimed Kitty, how can you talk so? I'm sure I pity that old man dreadfully. Lore, said Belle, what's the use of pitying? If you are going to begin to pity, you'll have to do it all the time. Look, and hear Belle touch her companion's elbow. There's Willie Sullivan, father's clerk. Ain't he a beauty? I want to stop and speak to him. But before she could address a word to him, Willie, who was walking very fast, passed her with a bow, and a pleasant, good morning, Miss Isabelle, and ere she had recovered from the surprise and disappointment, with some rods down the street. Polite, muttered the pretty Isabelle. Why, Belle, do see, said Kitty, who was looking back over her shoulder. He's overtaken the old man and my interesting little girl. Look, look, he's put the old man's other arm through his, and they are all three walking off together. Isn't that quite a coincidence? Looking very remarkable, replied Belle, who seemed a little annoyed. I suppose they are persons he's acquainted with. Come, make haste. We shall be late at school. Reader, do you wonder who they are, the girl and the old man? Or have you already conjectured that they are no other than Gertie and Truman Flint? True is no longer the brave, strong, sturdy protector of the feeble, lonely child. The cases are quite reversed. True has had a paralytic stroke. His strength is gone, his power even to walk alone. He sits all day in his armchair, or on the old settle, when he is not out walking with Gertie. The blow came suddenly, struck down the robust man, and left him feeble as a child. And the little stranger, the orphan girl, who in her weakness, her loneliness and her poverty, found in him a father and a mother. She now is all the world to him. His staff, his stay, his comfort, and his hope. During four or five years that he has cherished the frail blossom, she has been gaining strength for the time when he should be the leaning, she the sustaining power. And when the time came, and it came full soon, she was ready to respond to the call. With the simplicity of a child, but a woman's firmness. With the stature of a child, but a woman's capacity. The earnestness of a child, but a woman's perseverance. From morning till night, the faithful little nurse and housekeeper, labors untiringly in the service of her first, her best friend. Ever at his side, ever attending to his wants, and yet most wonderfully accomplishing many things which he never sees her do. She seems, indeed, to the fond old man, what he once prophesied she would become. Gods embodied blessing to his latter years, making light his closing days, and cheering even the pathway to the grave. Though disease had robbed trues limbs of all their power, the blast had happily spared his mind, which was clear and tranquil as ever. While his pious heart was fixed in humble trust on that God whose presence and love he had ever acknowledged, and on whom he so fully relied, that even in this bitter trial he was able to say, in perfect submission, thy will not mine be done. Little did those who wondered, as day after day they watched the invalid and his childish guardian, at the patience and self-sacrifice of the devoted girl. Little did they understand the emotions of Gertie's loving, grateful heart. Little did they realize the joy it was to her to sustain and support her beloved friend. Little did she, who would have been too proud to walk with the old paralytic, know what Gertie's pride was made of. She would have wondered, had she been told that the heart of the girl, whom she would have pitied, could she have spared time to pity anyone, had never swelled with so fervent and noble a satisfaction, as when, with a trembling old man leaning on her arm, she gloried in the burden. The outward world was nothing at all to her. She cared not for the conjectures of the idol, the curious, or the vain. She lived for true now. She might almost be said to live in him, so wholly were her thoughts bent on promoting his happiness, prolonging and blessing his days. It had not long been thus. Only about two months previous, to the morning of which we have been speaking, had true been stricken down with this weighty affliction. He had been in failing health, but had still been able to attend to all his duties and labours, until one day, in the month of June, when Gertie went into his room, and found, to her surprise, that he had not risen, although it was much later than his usual hour. Ungoing to the bedside and speaking to him, she perceived that he looked strangely, and had lost the power of replying to her questions. Bewildered and frightened, she ran to call Mrs. Sullivan. A physician was summoned. The case pronounced one of paralysis, and for a time there seemed reason to fear that it would prove fatal. He soon, however, began to amend, recovered his speech, and, in a week or two, was well enough to walk about, with Gertie's assistance. The doctor had recommended as much gentle exercise as possible, and every pleasant morning before the day grew warm, Gertie presented herself bonneted and equipped for those walks, which, unknown to her, excited so much observation. She usually took advantage of this opportunity to make such little household purchases as were necessary, that she might not be compelled to go out again and leave true alone, that being a thing she as much as possible avoided doing. On the occasion already alluded to, Willie accompanied them, as far as the provision shop, which was their destination, and, having seen true comfortably seated, proceeded to, blank wharf, while Gertie stepped up to the counter to bargain for the dinner. She purchased a bit of veal, suitable for broth, gazed wishfully at some tempting summer vegetables, turned away inside. She held in her hand the wallet which contained all their money. It had now been in her keeping for some weeks, and was growing light, so she knew it was no use to think about the vegetables. And she sighed, because she remembered how much Uncle True enjoyed the green peas last year. How much is the meat? Asked she of the rosy-cheeked butcher, who was wrapping it up in a paper. He named the sum. It was very little—so little—that it almost seemed to Gertie as if he had seen into her purse, and her thoughts too, and knew how glad she would be that it did not cost any more. As he handed her the change, he leaned over the counter, and asked, in an undertone, what kind of nourishment Mr. Flint was able to take. The doctor said any wholesome food, replied Gertie, Don't you think he'd relish some green peas? I've got some first-rate ones, fresh from the country. And if you think he'd eat them, I should like to send you some. My boy shall take round half a peck or so, and I'll put the meat right in the same basket. Thank you, said Gertie, he likes green peas. Very well, very well, then I'll send him some beauties. And he turned away to wait upon another customer, so quick that Gertie thought he did not see how the color came into her face and the tears into her eyes. But he did see, and that was the reason he turned away so quickly. He was a clever fellow, that rosy-cheeked butcher. True had an excellent appetite, enjoyed and praised the dinner exceedingly, and after eating heartily of it fell asleep in his chair. The moment he awoke, Gertie sprung to his side, exclaiming, Uncle True, here's Miss Emily, here's dear Miss Emily come to see you. The Lord bless you, my dear, dear young lady, said True, trying to rise from his chair and go towards her. Don't rise, Mr. Flint, I beg you will not, exclaimed Emily, whose quick ear perceived the motion. From what Gertie tells me, I fear you are not able. Please give me a chair, Gertie, nearer to Mr. Flint. She drew near, took True's hand, but looked inexpressibly shocked as she observed how tremulous it had become. Ah, Miss Emily, said he, I'm not the same man as when I saw you last. The Lord has given me a warning, and I shan't be here long. I'm so sorry I did not know of this, said Emily, I should have come to see you before, but I never heard of your illnesses until today. George, my father's man, saw you and Gertchard at a shop this morning, and mentioned it to me as soon as he came out of town. I have been telling this little girl that she should have sent me word. Gertie was standing by True's chair, smoothing his gray locks with her slender fingers. As Emily mentioned her name, he turned and looked at her. Oh, what a look of love he gave her. Gertie never forgot it. Miss Emily, said he, to his no need for anybody to be troubled. The Lord provided for me his own self. All the doctors and nurses in the land couldn't have done half as much for me as this little gal of mine. It wasn't at all in my mind, some four or five years gone, when I brought the little barefoot might of a thing to my home. And when she was sick, and Ian almost dying in this very room, and I carried her in my arms night and day, that her turn would come so soon. I little thought then, Miss Emily, how the Lord would lay me low, how those very same feet would run about in my service, how her bit of a hand would come in the dark nights to smooth my pillow, and I'd go about daytimes leaning on her little arm. Truly God's ways are not like our ways, nor his thoughts like our thoughts. Oh, Uncle True, said Gertie, I don't do much for you. I wish I could do a great deal more. I wish I could make you strong again. I dare say you do, my darling, but that can't be in this world. You've given me what's far better than strength the body. Yes, Miss Emily, added he, turning again towards the blind girl. It's you we have to thank for all the comfort we enjoy. I loved my little birdie, but I was a foolish man, and I should have spoiled her. You knew better what was for her good, and mine, too. You made her what she is now, one of the lambs of Christ, a handmaiden of the Lord. If anybody told me six months ago that I should become a poor cripple, and sit in my chair all day, and not know who is going to furnish a living for me or birdie either, I should have said I never could bear my lot with patience, or keep up any heart at all. But I've learned a lesson from this little one, when I first got so I could speak after the shock, and tell what was in my mind. I was so mightily troubled to think enough of my sad case, and girdy, with nobody to work, or do anything for her, that I took on bad enough, and said, What shall we do now? What shall we do now? And then she whispered in my ear, God will take care of us, Uncle True. And when I forgot the saying, and asked, Who will feed and clothe us now? She said again, The Lord will provide. And in my deepest distress of all, when one night I was full of anxious thoughts about my child, I said aloud, If I die, who will take care of Girdy? The little thing that I supposed was sound asleep in her bed, laid her head down beside me, and said, Uncle True, when I was turned out into the dark streets all alone, and had no friends nor any home, my heavenly Father sent you to me. And now, if he wants you to come to him, and is not ready to take me too, he will send somebody else to take care of me the rest of the time I stay. After that, Miss Emily, I gave up worrying any more. Her words and the blessed teachings of the holy book that she reads me every day have sunk deep into my heart, and I'm at peace. I used to think that, if I lived and had my strengths spared me, Girdy would be able to go to school, and get a site of learning. For she has a natural lurch for it, and it comes easy to her. She's but a slender child, and I never could bear the thought of her being driven to hard work for a living. She don't seem made for it somehow. I hoped, when she grew up, to see her as schoolmistress, like Miss Brown, or something in that line. But I've done be invext about it now. I know, as she says, it's all for the best, or it wouldn't be. When he finished speaking, Girdy, whose face had been hit against his shoulder, looked up and said bravely, Oh, Uncle True, I'm sure I can do almost any kind of work. Mrs. Sullivan says I sew very well, and I can learn to be a milliner or a dressmaker. That isn't hard work. Mr. Flint, said Emily, would you be willing to trust your child with me? If you should be taken from her, would you feel as if she were safe in my charge? Miss Emily, said True, would I think her safe in angel keeping? I should believe her in little short of that if she could have you to watch over her. Oh, do not say that, said Miss Emily, or I shall be afraid to undertake so solemn a trust. I know too well that my want of sight, my ill health, and my inexperience almost unfit me for the care of a child like Girdy. But since you approve of the teaching I have already given her, and are so kind as to think a great deal better of me than I deserve, I know you will at least believe in the sincerity of my wish to be of use to her. And if it will be any comfort to you to know that in case of your death I will gladly take Girdy to my home, see that she is well educated, and, as long as I live, provide for and take care of her. You have my solemn assurance, and here she laid her hand on his, that it shall be done, and that to the best of my ability I will try to make her happy. Girdy's first impulse was to rush towards Emily and flink her arms around her neck. But she was arrested in the act, for she observed that true was weeping like an infant. In an instant his feeble head was resting upon her bosom, her hand was wiping away the great tears that had rushed to his eyes. It was an easy task, for they were tears of joy, of a joy that had quite unnerved him in his present state of prostration and weakness. The proposal was so utterly foreign to his thoughts or expectations that it seemed to him a hope too bright to be relied upon. And after a moment's pause, an idea occurring to him which seemed to increase his doubts, he gave utterance to it in the words. But your father, Miss Emily, Mr. Graham, he's particular and not over-young now. I'm afeard he wouldn't like a little gale in the house. My father is indulgent to me, replied Emily. He would not object to any plans I had at heart, and I have become so much attached to Gertrude that she would be of great use and comfort to me. I trust, Mr. Flint, that you will recover a portion at least of your health and strength, and be spared to her for many a year yet. But in order that you may, in no case, feel any anxiety on her account, I take this opportunity to tell you that, if I should outlive you, she will be sure of a home with me. Ah, Miss Emily, said the old man, my time's about out. I feel right sure of that. And since you're willing, you'll soon be called to take charge on her. I haven't forgot how tossed I was in my mind, the day after I brought her home with me, with thinking that perhaps I wasn't fit to undertake the care of such a little thing, and hadn't ways to make her comfortable. And then, Miss Emily, do you remember you said to me, you've done quite right, the Lord will bless and reward you. I've thought many a time since that you was a true prophet, and that your words were, what I thought of then, a whisper right from heaven. And now you talk of doing the same thing yourself. And I, that I'm just going home to God, and feel as if I read his ways clearer than ever afore. I tell you, Miss Emily, that you are doing right too, and if the Lord rewards you as he has done me, there'll come a time when this child will pay you back in love and care all you ever do for her. Gertie? She's not here, said Emily. I heard her run into her own room. Poor Gertie, said true. She doesn't like to hear a my leave in her. I'm said to think how some day soon she'll almost sob her heart away over her old uncle. Never mind now. I was going to bid her to be a good child to you, but I think she will without Bidden, and I can say my say to her another time. Goodbye, my dear young lady. For Emily had risen to go, and George, the man-servant, was waiting at the door for her. If I never see you again, remember that you've made an old man so happy that he's nothing in this world left to wish for, and that you carry with you a dying man's best blessing, and his prayer that God may grant such perfect peace to your last days as now he does to mine. That evening, when True had already retired to rest, and Gertie had finished reading aloud in her little Bible, as she always did at bedtime, True called her to him, and asked her, as he had often done of late, to repeat his favorite prayer for the sick. She knelt at his bedside, and with a solemn and touching earnestness fulfilled his request. Now, darlin', the prayer for the dying. Isn't there such a one in your little book? Gertie trembled. There was such a prayer, a beautiful one, and the thoughtful child to whom the idea of death was familiar knew it by heart. But could she repeat the words? Could she command her voice? Her whole frame shook with agitation. But Uncle True wished to hear it. It would be a comfort to him, and she would try. Concentrating all her energy and self-command, she began, and gaining strength as she proceeded, went on to the end. Once or twice her voice faltered, but with new effort she succeeded in spite of the great bunches in her throat, and her voice sounded so clear and calm that Uncle True's devotional spirit was not once disturbed by the thought of the girl's sufferings. For fortunately he could not hear how her heart beat and throbbed and threatened to burst. She did not rise at the conclusion of the prayer. She could not. But remained kneeling, her head buried in the bed clothes. For a few moments there was a solemn stillness in the room, then the old man laid his hand upon her head. She looked up. You love Miss Emily, don't you, Bertie? Yes, indeed. You'll be a good child to her when I'm gone? Oh, Uncle True, sobbed Gertie, you mustn't leave me. I can't live without you, dear Uncle True. It is God's will to take me, Gertie. He has always been good to us, and we mustn't doubt him now. Miss Emily can do more for you than I could, and you'll be very happy with her. No, I shan't. I shan't ever be happy again in this world. I never was happy until I came to you, and now if you die, I wish I could die too. You mustn't wish that, Darwin. You are young, and must try to do good in the world, and bide your time. I'm an old man, and only a trouble now. No, no, Uncle True, said Gertie earnestly. You are not a trouble. You never could be a trouble. I wish I'd never been so much trouble to you. So far from that, Bertie. God knows you've longed been my heart's delight. It only pains me now to think that you're a spendin' all your time and slavin' here at home instead of goin' to school as you used to. But, oh, we all depend on each other so, first on God, and then on each other. And that minds me, Gertie, of what I was going to say. I feel as if the Lord would call me soon, sooner than you think for now, and at first you'll cry and be swervexed no doubt. But Miss Emily will take you with her, and she'll tell you blessed things to comfort you. How we shall all meet again, and be happy in that world where there's no pardons. And Willie'll do everything he can to help you in your sorrow, and in time you'll be able to smile again. At first, and perhaps for a long time, Gertie, you'll be a care to Miss Emily, and she'll have to do a deal for you in the way of school, and clothing, and so on. And what I want to tell you is, that Uncle True expects you'll be as good as can be, and do just what Miss Emily says. And by and by, maybe, when you're bigger and older, you'll be able to do something for her. She's blind, you know, and you must be eyes for her. And she's not over-strong, and you must lend a help in hand to her weakness, just as you do to mine. And if you're good and patient, God will make your heart light at last, while you're only trying to make other folks happy. And when you're sad and troubled, for everybody is sometimes, then think of Old Uncle True and how he used to say, Cheer up, Bertie, for I'm of the pinion, to we'll all come out right at last. There, don't feel bad about it. Go to bed, darling, and tomorrow we'll have a nice walk, and we'll ease it going with us, you know. Gertie tried to cheer up for true sake, and went to bed. She did not sleep for some hours, but when at last she did fall into a quiet slumber, it continued unbroken until morning. She dreamed that morning was already come, that she and Uncle True and Willie were taking a pleasant walk, that Uncle True was strong and well again, his eye bright, his step firm, and Willie and herself laughing and happy. And while she dreamed the beautiful dream, little thinking that her first friend and she should no longer tread life's paths together, the messenger came, a gentle, noiseless messenger, and in the still night, while the world was asleep, took the soul of good old True, and carried at home to God. CHAPTER 16 The stars are mansions built by nature's hand, and happily there are the spirits of the blessed, dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest, Wordsworth. Two months have passed since Truman Flynn's death, and Gertrude has for a week been domesticated in Mr. Graham's family. It was through the newspaper that Emily first heard of the little girl's sudden loss, and immediately acquainting her father with her wishes and plans concerning the child, she found she had no opposition to fear from him. He reminded her, however, of the inconvenience that would attend Gertrude's coming to them at once, as they were soon to start on a visit to some distant relatives, from which they would not return until it was nearly time to remove to the city for the winter. Emily felt the force of this objection. For although Mrs. Ellis would be at home during their absence, she knew that, even were she willing to undertake the charge of Gertrude, she would be a very unfit person to console her in her time of sorrow and affliction. This thought troubled Emily, who now considered herself the orphan girl's sole protector, and she regretted much that this unusual journey should take place so inopportunely. There was no help for it, however, for Mr. Graham's plans were arranged and must not be interfered with, unless she would make Gertrude's coming at the very outset, unwelcome and disagreeable. She started for town there for the next morning, quite undecided what course to pursue under the circumstances. The day was Sunday, but Emily's errand was one of charity and love, and would not admit of delay. And an hour before the time for morning service, Mrs. Sullivan, who stood at her open window, which looked out upon the street, saw Mr. Graham's carry-all stop at the door. She ran to meet Emily, and with the politeness and kindness always observable in her, waited upon her into a neat parlor, guided her to a comfortable seat, placed in her hand a fan, for the weather was excessively warm, and then proceeded to tell how thankful she was to see her, and how sorry she felt that Gertrude was not at home. Emily wonderingly asked where Gertrude was, and learned that she was out walking with Willie. A succession of inquiries followed, and a long and touching story was told by Mrs. Sullivan of Gertrude's agony of grief, the impossibility of comforting her, and the fears the little kind woman had entertained lest the girl would die of sorrow. I couldn't do anything with her myself, said she. There she sat day after day, last week, on her little cricket, by Uncle Tru's easy-chair, with her head on the cushion, and I couldn't get her to move or eat a thing. She didn't appear to hear me when I spoke to her, and if I tried to move her, she didn't struggle, for she was very quiet, but she seemed just like a dead weight in my hands, and I couldn't bear to make her come away into my room, though I knew it would change the scene, and be better for her. If it hadn't been for Willie, I don't know what I should have done. I was getting so worried about the poor child, but he knows how to manage her a great deal better than I do. When he is at home, we get along very well, for he takes her right up in his arms. He's very strong, and she's as light as a feather, you know, and either carries her into some other room or out into the yard, and somehow he contrives to cheer her up wonderfully. He persuades her to eat, and in the evenings, when he comes home from the store, takes long walks with her. Now last evening they went way over Chelsea Bridge, where it was cool and pleasant, you know, and I suppose he diverted her attention and amused her, for she came home brighter than I've seen her at all, and quite tired. I got her to go to bed in my room, and she slept soundly all night, so that she really looks quite like herself today. They've gone out again this morning, and being Sunday, and Willie at home all day. I've no doubt he'll keep her spirits up, if anybody can. Willie shows very good judgment, said Emily, in trying to change the scene for her, and divert her thoughts. I'm thankful she has such kind friends. I promised Mr. Flint she should have a home with me when he was taken away, and not knowing of his death until now, I consider it a great favour to myself, as well as her, that you have taken such excellent care of her. I felt sure you had been all goodness, or it would have given me great regret that I had not heard of true's death before. Oh, Miss Emily, said Mrs. Sullivan, Gertrude is so dear to us, and we have suffered so much in seeing her suffer, that it was a kindness to ourselves to do all we could to comfort her. Why, I think she and Willie could not love each other better if they were own brother and sister, and Willie and Uncle True were great friends. Indeed, we shall all miss him very much. My old father doesn't say much about it, but I can see he's very downhearted. More conversation followed, in the course of which Mrs. Sullivan informed Emily that a cousin of hers, a farmer's wife living in the country, about 20 miles from Boston, had invited them all to come and pass a week or two with her at the farm, and as Willie was now to enjoy his usual summer vacation, they proposed accepting the invitation. She spoke of Gertrude's accompanying them as a matter of course, and enlarged upon the advantage it would be to her to breathe the country air, and ramble about the fields and woods, after all the fatigue and confinement she had endured. Emily, finding from her inquiries that Gertrude would be a welcome and expected guest, cordially approved of the visit, and also arranged with Mrs. Sullivan that she should remain under her care until Mr. Graham removed to Boston for the winter. She was then obliged to leave, without waiting for Gertrude's return, though she left many a kind message for her, and placed in Mrs. Sullivan's hands a sufficient sum of money to provide for all her wants and expenses. Gertrude went into the country, and abundance of novelty, of country fair, healthful exercise, and heartfelt kindness and sympathy brought the color into her cheek, and calmness and composure, if not happiness, into her heart. Soon after the Sullivan's return from their excursion, the Graham's removed to the city, and as we have said before, Gertrude had now been with them about a week. Are you still standing at the window, Gertrude? What are you doing, dear? I'm watching to see the lamps lit, Miss Emily. But they will not be lit at all. The moon will rise at eight o'clock, and light the street sufficiently for the rest of the night. I don't mean the street lamps. What do you mean, my child? said Emily, coming towards the window, and lightly resting a hand on each of Gertrude's shoulders. I mean the stars, dear Miss Emily. Oh, how I wish you could see them, too. Are they very bright? Oh, they are beautiful, and there are so many. The sky is as full as it can be. How well I remember when I used to stand at this very window, and look at them as you were doing now. It seems to me as if I saw them this moment. I know so well how they look. I love the stars. All of them, said Gertrude, but my own star, I love the best. Which do you call yours? That splendid one there over the church-steeple. It shines into my room every night, and looks me in the face. Miss Emily? And here Gertrude lowered her voice to a whisper. It seems to me as if that star were lit on purpose for me. I think Uncle True lights it every night. I always feel as if he were smiling up there, and saying, See, Gertrude, I'm lighting the lamp for you. Dear Uncle True, Miss Emily, do you think he loves me now? I do indeed, Gertrude, and I think if you make him an example, and try to live as good and patient a life as he did, that he will really be a lamp to your feet, and as bright a light to your path, as if his face were shining down upon you through the star. I was patient and good when I lived with him. At least I almost always was. And I'm good when I'm with you. But I don't like Mrs. Ellis. She tries to plague me, and she makes me cross, and then I get angry, and don't know what I do or say. I did not mean to be impertinent to her today, and I wished I hadn't slimed the door. But how could I help it, Miss Emily, when she told me, right before Mr. Graham, that I tore up the last night's journal, and I know that I did not? It was an old paper that she saw me tying your slippers up in, and I am almost sure that she lit the library fire with that very journal herself. But Mr. Graham will always think I did it. I have no doubt, Gertrude, that you had some reason to feel provoked, and I believe you when you say that you were not the person to blame for the loss of the newspaper. But you must remember, my dear, that there is no merit in being patient and good-tempered when there is nothing to irritate you. I want you to learn to bear even injustice without losing your self-control. You know Mrs. Ellis has been here a number of years. She has had everything her own way, and is not used to young people. She felt when you came that it was bringing new care and trouble upon her, and it is not strange that when things go wrong she should sometimes think you in fault. She is a very faithful woman, very kind and attentive to me, and very important to my father. It will make me unhappy if I have any reason to fear that you and she will not live pleasantly together. I do not want to make you unhappy. I do not want to be a trouble to anybody," said Gertrude, with some excitement. I'll go away. I'll go off somewhere where you will never see me again. Gertrude, said Emily, seriously and sadly, her hands were still upon the young girl's shoulders, and as she spoke she turned her round and brought her face to face with herself. Gertrude, do you wish to leave your blind friend? Do you not love me? So touchingly grieved was the expression of the countenance that met her gaze, that Gertrude's proud, hasty spirit was subdued. She threw her arms around Emily's neck and exclaimed, No, dear Miss Emily, I would not leave you for all the world. I will do just as you wish. I will never be angry with Mrs. Ellis again, for your sake. Not for my sake, Gertrude, replied Emily, for your own sake, for the sake of duty and of God. A few years ago I should not have expected you to be pleasant and amiable towards anyone whom you felt ill treated you. But now that you know so well what is right, now that you are familiar with the life of that blessed master, who when he was reviled, reviled not again, now that you have learned faithfully to fulfill so many important duties, I had hoped that you had learned also to be forebearing under the most trying circumstances. But do not think, Gertrude, because I remind you when you have done wrong, I despair of your becoming one day all I wish to see you. What you are experiencing now being a new trial, you must bring new strength to bear upon it, and I have such confidence in you as to believe that, knowing my wishes, you will try to behave properly to Mrs. Ellis on all occasions. I will, Miss Emily, I will. I'll not answer her back when she's ugly to me, if I have to bite my lips to keep them together. Oh, I do not believe it will be so bad as that, said Emily, smiling. Mrs. Ellis's manner is rather rough, but you will get used to her. Just then a voice was heard in the entry. To see Miss Flint? Really! Well, Miss Flint is in Miss Emily's room. She's going to entertain company, is she? Gertrude colored to her temples, for it was Mrs. Ellis's voice, and the tone in which she spoke was very derisive. Emily stepped to the door and opened it. Mrs. Ellis, what say, Emily? Is there anyone below? Yes, a young man wants to see Gertrude. It's that young Sullivan, I believe. Willie exclaimed Gertrude, starting forward. You can go down and see him, Gertrude, said Emily. Come back here when he's gone. And Mrs. Ellis, I wish you would step in and put my room a little in order. I think you will find plenty of pieces for your rag bag about the carpet. Miss Randolph always scatters so many when she is engaged with her dress-making. Mrs. Ellis made her collection, and then, seating herself on a couch at the side of the fireplace, with her colored rags in one hand and the white in the other. Commence speaking of Gertrude. What are you going to do with her, Emily, said she, sent her to school? Yes, she will go to Mr. W's this winter. Why, isn't that a very expensive school for a child like her? It is expensive, certainly, but I wish her to be with the best teacher I know of, and father makes no objection to the terms. He thinks, as I do, that if we undertake to fit her to instruct others, she must be thoroughly taught herself. I talked with him about it the first night after we came into town for the season, and he agreed with me that we had better put her out to learn a trade at once, then half educate, make a fine lady of her, and so unfit her for anything. He was willing I should manage the matter as I pleased, and I resolved to send her to Mr. W's. So she will remain with us for the present. I wish to keep her with me as long as I can, not only because I am fond of the child, but she is delicate and sensitive, and now that she is so sad about old Mr. Flynn's death, I think we ought to do all we can to make her happy. Don't you, Mrs. Ellis? I always calculate to do my duty, said Mrs. Ellis, rather stiffly. Where is she going to sleep when we get settled? In the little room at the end of the passage. Then where shall I keep the linen press? Can't it stand in the back entry? I should think the space between the windows would accommodate it. I suppose it's got to, said Mrs. Ellis, flouncing out of the room and muttering to herself. Everything turned topsy-turvy for the sake of that little upstart. Mrs. Ellis was vexed on more accounts than one. She had long had her own way in the management of all household matters at Mr. Graham's, and had consequently become rather tyrannical. She was capable, methodical, and neat, accustomed to a small family, and now for many years, quite unaccustomed to children. Gertrude was in her eyes an unwarrantable intruder, one who must have necessity be continually in mischief, continually deranging her most cherished plans. Then too Gertrude had been reared, as Mrs. Ellis expressed it, among the lower classes. And the housekeeper, who was not in reality very hard-hearted, and quite approved of all public and private charities, had a slight prejudice in favor of high birth. Indeed, though now depressed in her circumstances, she prided herself on being of a good family, and considered it an insult to her dignity to expect that she should feel an interest in providing for the wants of one so inferior to her in point of station. More than all this, she saw in the new inmate a formidable rival to herself in Mrs. Graham's affections, and Mrs. Ellis could not brook the idea of being second in the regard of Emily, who, owing to her peculiar misfortune and to her delicate health, had long been in her a special charge, and for whom she felt as much tenderness as it was in her nature to feel for anyone. Owing to all these circumstances, Mrs. Ellis was far from being favorably disposed towards Gertrude, and Gertrude, in her turn, was not yet prepared to love Mrs. Ellis very cordially. CHAPTER XVII. And thou must sail upon the sea, a long, eventful voyage. The wise may suffer wreck, the foolish must. O then, be early wise, warn. Emily sat alone in her room. Mr. Graham had gone to a meeting of bank directors. Mrs. Ellis was stoning raisins in the dining-room. Willie still detained Gertrude in the little library below stairs, and Emily, with the moonlight now streaming across the chamber, which was nonetheless dark to her on that account, was indulging in a long train of meditation. Her head rested on her hand. Her face, usually so placid, was sad and melancholy in its expression, and her whole appearance and attitude denoted despondency and grief. As thought pressed upon thought, and past sorrows arose in quick secession, her head gradually sunk upon the cushions of the couch where she sat, and tears slowly trickled through her fingers. Suddenly a hand was laid softly upon hers. She gave a quick start, as she always did when surprised, for her unusual preoccupation of mind had made Gertrude's approaching step unheard. "'Is anything the matter, Miss Emily?' said Gertrude. "'Do you like best to be alone, or may I stay?' The sympathetic tone, the delicacy of the child's question, touched Emily. She drew her towards her, saying as she did so. "'Oh, yes, stay with me.' Then observing, as she passed an arm round the little girl, that she trembled, and seemed violently agitated, she added. "'But what is the matter with you, Gertie? What makes you tremble, and sob so?' At this Gertrude broke forth with, "'Oh, Miss Emily, I thought you were crying when I came in, and I hoped you would let me come and cry with you, for I am so miserable I can't do anything else.' Calmed herself by the morpheum and agitation of the child, Emily endeavored to discover the cause of this evidently new and severe affliction. It proved to be this. Emily had been to tell her that he was going away, going out of the country, as Gertrude expressed it, to the very other end of the world, to India. Mr. Clinton was interested in a mercantile house at Calcutta, and had offered William the most favourable terms to go abroad as clerk to the establishment. The prospect thus afforded was far better than he could hope for by remaining at home. The salary was, at the very first, sufficient to defray all his own expenses, and provide for the wants of those who are now becoming every year more and more dependent upon him. The chance, too, of future advancement was great, and though the young man's affectionate heart clung fondly to home and friends, there was no hesitation in his mind as to the course which both duty and interest prompted. He agreed to the proposal, and whatever his own struggles were at the thought of five, or perhaps ten years' banishment, he kept them manfully to himself, and talked cheerfully about it to his mother and grandfather. Miss Emily, said Gertrude, when she had acquainted her with the news, and become again somewhat calm, how can I bear to have Willie go away? How can I live without Willie? He is so kind and loves me so much. He was always better than any brother, and since Uncle True died, he had done everything in the world for me. I believe I could not have borne Uncle True's death if it had not been for Willie. And now how can I let him go away? It is hard, Gertrude, said Emily kindly. But it is no doubt for his advantage. You must try and think of that. I know it, replied Gertrude. I suppose it is. But Miss Emily, you do not know how I love Willie. We were so much together, and there were only us, too, and we thought everything of each other. He was so much older than I, and always took such good care of me. Oh, I don't think you have any idea what friends we are. Gertrude had unconsciously touched a cord that vibrated through Emily's whole frame. Her voice trembled as she answered, I, Gertrude, not no, my child, I know better than you imagine how dear he must be to you. I, too, had. Then checking herself, she paused abruptly, and there was a few moments' silence, during which Emily got up, walked hastily to the window, pressed her aching head against the frosty glass, and then, returning to Gertrude, said in a voice which had recovered its usual calmness. Oh, Gertrude, in the grief that oppresses you now, you little realize how much you have to be thankful for. Think, my dear, what a blessing it is, that Willie will be where you can often hear from him, and where he can have constant news of his friends. Yes, replied Gertrude. He says he shall write to his mother and me very often. Then, too, said Emily, you ought to rejoice at the good opinion Mr. Clinton must have of Willie, the perfect confidence he must feel in his uprightness to place in him so much trust. I think that is very flattering. So it is, said Gertrude, I did not think of that. And you have lived so happily together, continued Emily, and will part in such perfect peace. Oh, Gertrude, Gertrude, such a parting as that should not make you sad. There are so much worse things in the world. Be patient, my dear child, do your duty, and perhaps there will someday be a happy meeting that will quite repay you for all you suffer in the separation. Emily's voice trembled as she uttered the last few words. Gertrude's eyes were fixed upon her friend with a very puzzled expression. Miss Emily, said she, I begin to think everybody has trouble. Certainly, Gertrude, can you doubt it? I did not use to think so. I knew I had, but I thought other folks were more fortunate. I fancied that rich people were all happy. And though you are blind, and that is a dreadful thing, I suppose you are used to it. And you always looked so pleasant and quiet. I took it for granted, nothing ever vexed you now. And then Willie. I believed once that nothing could make him look sad. He was always so gay. But when he had in any place, I saw him really cry. And then when Uncle True died, and now again tonight, when he was telling me about going away, he could hardly speak he felt so badly. And so, Miss Emily, since I see that you and Willie have troubles, and that tears will come, though you tried to keep them back, I think the world is full of trials and that everybody gets a share. It is the lot of humanity, Gertrude, and we must not expect it to be otherwise. Then who can be happy, Miss Emily? There's only my child, who have learned submission. Those who, in the severest afflictions, see the hand of a loving father, and obedient to his will, kiss the chastening rod. It is very hard, Miss Emily. It is hard, my child, and therefore few in this world can rightly be called happy. But if, even in the midst of our distress, we can look to God in faith and love, we may, when the world is dark around, experience a peace that is a foretaste of heaven. And Emily was right. Who that is striving after the Christian life has not experienced moments when, amid unusual discouragements and disappointments, the heart turning in love and trust to its great source, experiences emotions of ecstatic joy and hope that never come to the prosperous and the world called happy. He who has had such dreams of eternal peace can form some conception of the rest which remaineth for the people of God, when, with an undivided affection and a faith undimmed by a single doubt, the soul reposes in the bosom of its creator. Gertrude had often found in time and the soothing influences of religious faith some alleviation to her trials. But never, until this night, did she feel a spirit not of earth, coming forth from the very chaos of sorrow into which she was plunged, and in kindling within her the flame of a higher and nobler sensation than she ever yet had cherished. When she left Emily that night, it was with a serenity which is strength, and if the spirit of Uncle Tru looking down upon her through the bright star which she so loved, sighed to see the tears which glittered in her eyes, it was reassured by the smile of a heaven-lit light that played over her features, and when she sunk to slumber stamped them with a seal of peace. Emily's departure was sudden, and Mrs. Sullivan had only a week in which to make those arrangements which a mother's thoughtfulness deems necessary. Her hands were there for full of work, and Gertrude, whom Emily at once relinquished for the short time previous to the vessel sailing, was of great assistance to her. Willie was very busy daytimes, but was always with them in the evening. On one occasion he returned home about dusk, and his mother and grandfather both being out, and Gertrude having just put aside her sewing. He said to her, Come, Gertrude, if you are not afraid of taking cold, come and sit on the doorstep with me, as we used to in old times. There will be no more such warm days as this, and we may never have another chance to sit there, and watch the moon rise above the old house at the corner. Oh, Willie, said Gertrude, do not speak of our never being together in this old place again. I cannot bear the thought. There is not a house in Boston I could ever love as I do this. Nor I, replied Willie, but there is not one chance in a hundred if I should be gone for five years, that there would not be a block of brick stores in this spot when I come to look for it. I wish I did not think so, for I shall have many a longing after the old home. But what will become of your mother and grandfather if this house is torn down? It is not easy to tell, Gertrude, what will become of any of us by that time, but if there is any necessity for their moving, I hope I shall be able to provide a better house than this for them. You won't be here, Willie. I know it, but I shall be always hearing from you, and we can talk about it by letters, and arrange everything. The idea of any such changes, after all, addity, is what troubles me most in going away. I think they would miss me and need me so much. Gertrude, you will take care of them, won't you? I, said Gertrude, in amazement, such a child as I, what can I do? If I am gone five or ten years, Gertrude, you will not be a child all that time, and a woman is often a better dependence than a man, especially such a good, brave woman as you will be. I have not forgotten the beautiful care you took of Uncle True, and whenever I imagine grandfather or mother old and helpless, I always think of you, and hope you will be near them, for I know, if you are, you will be a greater help than I could be. So I leave them in your care, Gertrude. Though you are only a child yet. Thank you, Willie, said Gertrude, for believing I shall do everything I can for them. I certainly will, as long as I live. But Willie, they may be strong and well all the time you are gone. And I, although I am so young, may be sick and die. Nobody knows. That is true enough, said Willie, sadly, and I may die myself, but it will not do to think of that. It seems to me I never should have courage to go, if I didn't hope to find you all well and happy when I come home. You must write to me every month, for it will be a much greater task to mother, and I am sure she will want you to do nearly all the writing. And whether my letters come directed to her or you, it will be all the same, you know. And Gertrude, you must not forget me, darling. You must love me just as much when I am gone, won't you? Forget you, Willie. I shall be always thinking of you and loving you the same as ever. What else shall I have to do? But you will be off in a strange country, where everything will be different, and you will not think half as much of me, I know. If you believe that, Gertrude, it is because you do not know. You will have friends all around you, and I shall be alone in a foreign land. But every day of my life, my heart will be with you and my mother, and I shall live here a great deal more than there. They were now interrupted by Mr. Cooper's return, nor did they afterwards renew the conversation on the above topics. But the morning Willie left them, when Mrs. Sullivan was leaning over a neatly pecked trunk in the next room, trying to hide her tears, and Mr. Cooper's head was about lower than usual, while the light had gone out in the neglected pipe, which he still held in his hand. Willie whispered to Gertrude, who was standing on a small chest of books, in order to force down the lid for him to lock it. Gertrude, dear, for my sake take good care of our mother and grandfather. They are yours almost as much as mine. When Willie's thus leaving home for the first time to struggle and strive among men, Mr. Cooper, who could not yet believe that the boy would be successful in the war with fortune, gave him many a caution against indulging hopes which never would be realized, and reminding him again and again that he knew nothing of the world. Mrs. Sullivan bestowed on her son but little parting counsel, trusting to the lessons he had been learning from his childhood. She compressed her parental advice into few words, saying, Love and fear God, Willie, and do not disappoint your mother. We pause not to dwell upon the last night the youths been at home, his mother's last evening prayer, her last morning benediction, the last breakfast they all took together, Gertrude among the rest, or the final farewell embrace. And Willie went to see, and the pious, loving, hopeful woman, who for eighteen years had cherished her boy with tenderness and pride, maintained now her wanted spirit of self-sacrifice, and gave him up without a murmur. None knew how she struggled with her aching heart, or whence came the power that sustained her. No one had given the little widow credit for such strength of mind, and the neighbors wondered much to see how quietly she went about her duties the day before her son sailed, and how, when he had gone, she still kept on with her work, and wore the same look of patient humility that ever characterized her. At the present moment, when emigration offers rare hopes and inducements, there is scarcely to be found in New England a village so insignificant, or so secluded, that there is not there some mother's heart bleeding at the perhaps lifelong separation from a darling son. Among the wanderers we hope. I, we believe, that there is many one who is actuated, not by the love of gold, the love of change, the love of adventure, but by the love he bears his mother, the earnest longing of his heart to save her from a life of toil and poverty, blessings and prosperity to him who goes forth with such a motive, and if he fail he has not lived in vain, for though stricken by disease or violence at the very threshold of his labours, he dies in attestation of the truth that there are sons worthy of a mother's love, a love which is the highest, the holiest, the purest type of God on earth. And now in truth commenced Gertrude's residence at Mr. Graham's, hitherto in various ways interrupted. She at once commenced attending school, and until the spring laboured diligently at her studies. Her life was varied by few incidents, for Emily never entertained much company, and in the winter scarcely any at all, and Gertrude formed no intimate acquaintances among her companions. With Emily she passed many happy hours, they took walks, read books, and talked much with each other. And Miss Graham found that in Gertrude's observing eyes, and her feeling and glowing descriptions of everything that came within their gaze, she was herself renewing her acquaintance with the outside world. In errands of charity and mercy, Gertrude was either her attendant or her messenger, and all the dependents of the family, from the cook to the little boy who called at the door for the fragments of broken bread, agreed in loving and praising for the child, who though neither beautiful nor elegantly dressed, had a fairy lightness of step, a grace of movement, and a dignity of bearing, which impressed them all with a conviction that she was no beggar in spirit, whatever might be her birth or fortune, and all were in the invariable habit of addressing her as Miss Gertrude. Mrs. Ellis's prejudices against her were still strong, but as Gertrude was always civil, and Emily prudently kept them much apart, no unhappy result had yet ensued. Mr. Graham, seeing her sad and pensive, did not at first take much notice of her, but having on several occasions found his newspaper carefully dried, and his spectacles miraculously restored, after a vain search on his part, he began to think her a smart girl, and when, a few weeks after, he took up the last number of the working farmer, and saw to his surprise that the leaves were cut and carefully stitched together. He, supposing that she had done it for her own benefit, pronounced her decidedly an intelligent girl. She went often to see Mrs. Sullivan, and as the spring advanced they began to look for news of Willie. No tidings had come, however, when the season arrived for the Grimes to remove into the country for the summer. A letter, written by Gertrude to Willie, soon after they were established there, will give some idea of her situation and mode of life. After dwelling at some length upon the disappointment of not having yet heard from him, and giving an account of the last visit she had made his mother before leaving the city, she went on to say, But you made me promise Willie to write about myself, and said you should wish to hear everything that occurred at Mr. Graham's which concerned me in any way. So if my letter is more tedious than usual, it is your own fault, for I have much to tell of our removal to D, and of the way in which we live here, so different from our life in Boston. I think I hear you say, when you have read so far. Oh, dear, now Gertrude is going to give me a description of Mr. Graham's country house. But you need not be afraid. I have not forgotten how, the last time I undertook to do so, you placed your hand over my mouth to stop me, and assured me you knew the place as well as if you had lived there all your life, for I had described it to you as often as once a week, ever since I was eight years old. I made you beg my pardon for being so on civil, but I believe I talked enough about my first visit here to excuse you for being quite tired of the subject. Now however, quite to my disappointment, everything looks smaller and less beautiful than it seemed to me then. And though I do not mean to describe it to you again, I must just tell you that the entry and the piazzas are much narrower than I expected, the rooms lower, and the garden and summer houses not nearly so large. Miss Emily asked me a day or two ago how I liked the place, and if it looked as it used to. I told her the truth, and she was not at all displeased, but laughed at my old recollections of the house and grounds, and said it was always so with the things we had seen when we were little children. I need not tell you that Miss Emily is kind and good to me as ever. For nobody who knows her as you do would suppose she could ever be anything but the best and loveliest person in the world. I can never do half enough willy to repay her for all her goodness to me. And yet she is so pleased with little gifts and so grateful for trifling attentions that it seems as if everybody might do something to make her happy. I found a few violets in the grass yesterday, and when I brought them to her she kissed and thanked me as if they had been so many diamonds. And little Ben Gaitley, who picked a hat full of dandelion blossoms, without a single stem, and then rang at the front doorbell and asked for Miss Gam so as to give them to her himself, got a sweet smile for his trouble. And a thank you, Benny, that he will not soon forget. Wasn't it pleasant in Miss Emily, willy? Mr. Graham has given me a garden, and I mean to have plenty of flowers for her by and by. That is, if Mrs. Ellis doesn't interfere. But I expect she will, for she does in almost everything. Willy, Mrs. Ellis is my trial, my great trial. She is just the kind of person I cannot endure. I believe there are some people that other people can't like, and she is just the sort I can't. I would not tell anybody else so, because it would not be right. And I do not know as it is right to mention it at all, but I always tell you everything. Miss Emily talks to me about her, and says I must learn to love her. And when I do, I shall be an angel. There, I know you will think that it is some of Gertie's old temper, and perhaps it is, but you don't know how she tries me. It is in little things that I cannot tell very easily. And I would not plague you with them if I could do so. So I won't write about her any more. I will try to be perfect, and love her dearly. You will think that now, while I am not going to school, I shall hardly know what to do with my time. But I have plenty to do. The first week after we came here, however, I found the mornings very dull. You know I am always an early riser. But as it does not agree with Miss Emily to keep early hours, I never see her until eight o'clock, full two hours after I am up and dressed. When we were in Boston, I always spent that time studying. But this spring, Miss Emily, who noticed that I was growing fast, and heard Mr. Arnold observe how pale I looked, fancied it would not do for me to spend so much time at my books. And so, when we came to D., she planned my study hours, which are very few, and arranged that they should take place after breakfast, and in her own room. She also advised me, if I could, to sleep later in the morning. But I could not, and was up at my usual time, wandering around the garden. One day I was quite surprised to find Mr. Graham at work, for it was not like his winter habits. But he is a queer man. He asked me to come and help him plant onion seeds. And I rather think I did it pretty well. For after that he let me help him plant a number of things, and label little sticks to put down by the side of them. At last, to my joy, he offered to give me a piece of ground for a garden, where I might raise flowers. He does not care for flowers, which seems so strange. He only raises vegetables and trees. And so I am to have a garden, but I am making a very long story, Willie, and have not time to say a thousand other things that I want to. Oh, if I could see you, I could tell you in an hour more than I can write in a week. In five minutes I expect to hear Miss Emily's bell, and then she will send for me to come and read to her. I long to hear from you, dear Willie, and pray to God, morning and evening, to keep you in safety, and soon send tidings of you to your loving, Gertie. A few weeks after the date of this letter, Gertie learned through George, who went daily to the city to attend to the marketing, that Mrs. Sullivan had left word at the shop of our old acquaintance, the rosy-cheeked butcher, that she had received a letter from Willie, and wanted Gertie to come into town and see it. Emily was willing to come to the town and see it, but she did not want to see it, and she did not want to see it, and she did not want to see it, and she did not want to see it, and Emily was willing to let her go, but afraid it would be impossible to arrange it. As Charlie, the only horse Mr. Graham kept, was in use, and she saw no way of sending her. Why don't you let her go in the omnibus? asked Mrs. Ellis. Gertie looked gratefully at Mrs. Ellis. It was the first time that lady had ever seemed anxious to promote her views. I don't think it's safe for her to go alone in the coach, said Emily. Safe? What, for that great girl? exclaimed Mrs. Ellis, whose position in the family was such that there were no forms of restraint in her intercourse with Mrs. Graham. Do you think it is? inquired Emily. She seems a child to me, to be sure. But as you say, she is almost grown up, and I dare say is capable of taking care of herself. Gertrude, are you sure you know the way from the omnibus office in Boston to Mrs. Olivans? Perfectly well, Miss Emily. Without further hesitation, two tickets for the coach were put into Gertrude's hand, and she set forth on her expedition with beaming eyes and a full heart. She found Mrs. Olivans and Mr. Cooper well, and rejoicing over the happiest tidings from Willie, who after a long but agreeable voyage had reached Calcutta in health and safety. A description of his new home, his new duties, and employers, filled all the rest of the letter, accepting what was devoted to affectionate messages and inquiries, a large share of which were for a girdie. Gertrude stayed and dined with Mrs. Olivans, and then hastened to the omnibus. She took her seat, and as she waited for the coach to start, amused herself with watching the passersby. It was nearly three o'clock, and she was beginning to think she should be the only passenger. When she heard a strange voice proceeding from a person whose approach she had not perceived, she moved towards the door, and saw, standing at the back of the coach, the most singular looking being she had ever be held. It was an old lady, small, and considerably bent with years. Gertrude knew at a glance that the same original mind must have conceived and executed every article of the most remarkable toilet she had ever witnessed. But before she could observe the details of that which was as a whole so wonderfully grotesque, her whole attention was arrested by the peculiar behavior of the old lady. She had been vainly endeavouring to mount the inconvenient vehicle, and now, with one foot upon the lower step, was calling to the driver to come to her assistance. Sir, said she, in measured tones, is this travelling equipage under your honourable charge? What say, Marm? Yes, I'm the driver, saying which he came up to the door, opened it, and without waiting for the polite request which was on the old lady's lips, placed his hand beneath her elbow, and before she was aware of his intention, lifted her into the coach and shut the door. Bless me! ejaculated she, as she seated herself opposite Gertrude, and began to arrange her veil and other draperies. That individual is not versed in the art of assisting a lady without detriment to her habiliments. Oh, dear, oh, dear! added she, in the same breath. I've lost my parasol. She rose as she spoke, but the sudden starting of the coach threw her off balance, and she would have fallen, head and up in for Gertrude, who caught her by the arm, and reseeded her, saying as she did so. Do not be alarmed, madame. Here is the parasol. As she spoke she drew into view the missing article, which, though nearly the size of an umbrella, was fastened to the old lady's waist by a green ribbon, and having slipped out of place was supposed lost. And not a parasol only did she thus bring to light. Numerous other articles, arranged in the same manner, and connected with the same green string, now met Gertrude's astonished eyes, a ridicule of unusual dimensions, and a great variety of colors, a black lace cap, a large feather fan, a roll of fancy paper, and several other articles. They were partly hidden under a thin black silk shawl, and Gertrude began to think her companion had been on a pilfering expedition. If so, however, the culprit seemed remarkably at her ease. For before the coach had gone many steps, she deliberately placed her feet on the opposite seat, and proceeded to make herself comfortable. In the first place, much to Gertrude's horror, she took out all her teeth and put them in her work bag, then drew off a pair of black silk gloves, and replaced them by cotton ones. Removed her lace veil, folded and pinned it to the green string. She next untied her bonnet, threw over it as a protection from the dust, a large cotton-hanger-chief, and with some difficulty unloosing her fan, applied herself so diligently to the use of it, closing her eyes as she did so, and evidently intending to go to sleep. She probably did fall into a dose, for she was very quiet, and Gertrude, occupied with her own thoughts, and with observing some heavy clouds that were arising from the west, forgot to observe her fellow-traveller, until she was startled by hand suddenly laid upon her own, and an abrupt exclamation of, My dear young damsel, do not those dark shadows be token adverse weather? I think it will rain very soon, replied Gertrude. This morn when I ventured forth, soliloquized the old lady, the sun was bright, the sky serene. Even the winged songsters, as they piped their hymns, proclaimed their part in the universal joy. And now, before I can regain my retirement, my delicate lace flounces, and she glanced at the skirt of her dress, will prove a sacrifice to the pitiless storm. Doesn't the coach pass your door, inquired Gertrude, her compassion excited by the old lady's evident distress. No, oh no, not within half a mile. Does it better accommodate you, my young miss? No, I have a mile to walk beyond the omnibus office. The old lady, moved by a deep sympathy, drew nearer to Gertrude, saying, in the most doleful accents, Alas, for the delicate whiteness of your bonnet ribbon. The coach head by this time reached its destination, and the two passengers alighted. Gertrude placed her ticket in the driver's hand, and would have started at once on her walk, but was prevented by the old lady, who grasped her dress, and begged her to wait for her as she was going the same way. And now great difficulty and delay ensued. The old lady refused to pay the amount of fare demanded by the driver, declared it was not the regular fare, and accused the man of an intention to put the surplus of two cents in his own pocket. Gertrude was impatient, for she was every moment expecting to see the rain pour in torrents. But at last, the matter being compromised between the driver and his closely calculating passenger, she was permitted to proceed. They had walked about a quarter of a mile, and that at a very slow rate, when the rain commenced falling. And now Gertrude was called upon to unloose the huge parasol, and carry it over her companion and herself. In this way they had accomplished nearly as much more of the distance, when the water began to descend, as if all the reservoirs of heaven were at once thrown open. At this moment Gertrude heard a step behind them, and turning she saw George, Mr. Graham's man, running in the direction of the house. He recognized her at once, and exclaimed, Miss Gertrude, you'll be wet through. And Miss Pace, too, added he, seeing Gertrude's companion. Sure, you'd better bathe hasten to her house, where you'll be secure. So saying, he caught Miss Pace in his arms, and signing to Gertrude to follow, rushed across the street, and hurrying on to a cottage nearby, did not stop until he had placed the old lady in safety beneath her own porch, and Gertrude at the same instant gained its shelter. Miss Pace, for such was the old lady's name, was so bewildered that it took her some minutes to recover her consciousness. And in the meantime, it was arranged that Gertrude should stop where she was for an hour or two, and that George should call for her when he passed that way with a carriage, on his return from the depot, where he went regularly on three afternoons in the week for Mr. Graham. Miss Pace was not generally considered a person of much hospitality. She owned the cottage which she occupied, and lived there quite alone, keeping no servants and entertaining no visitors. She herself was a famous visitor, and as but a small part of her life had been passed in D., and all her friends and connections lived either in Boston, or at a much greater distance. She was a constant frequenter of omnibuses and other public vehicles. But though, through her traveling propensities, and her regular attendance at church, she was well known. Gertrude was, perhaps, the first visitor that had ever entered her house, and she, as we have seen, could scarcely be said to have come by invitation. Even when she was at the very door, she found herself obliged to take the old lady's key, unlock and open it herself, and finally lead her hostess into the parlor, and help her off with her innumerable capes, shawls, and veils. Once come to a distinct consciousness of her situation, however, and Miss Pace conducted herself with all the elegant politeness for which she was remarkable. Suffering though she evidently was, with a thousand regrets, at the trying experience her own clothes had sustained, she commanded herself sufficiently to express nearly as many fears, thus Gertrude had ruined every article of her dress. It was only after many assurances from the latter that her boots were scarcely wet at all, her gingham dress and cape not likely to be hurt by rain, and her nice straw bonnet safe under the scarf she had thrown over it. That Miss Paddy could be prevailed upon to so far forget the duties of a hostess as to retire and change her lace flounces for something more suitable for home-wear. As soon as she left the room, Gertrude, whose curiosity was wonderfully excited, hastened to take a nearer view of numbers of articles, both of ornament and use, which had already attracted her attention from their odd and singular appearance. Miss Pace's parlor was as remarkable as its owner. Its furniture, like her apparel, was made up of the gleaning of every age and fashion, from chairs that undoubtedly came over in the Mayflower to feeble attempts at modern pincushions and imitations of crystallized grass that were a complete failure. Gertrude's quick and observing eye was reveling amid the few relics of ancient elegance and the numerous specimens of folly and bad taste with which the room was filled when the old lady returned. A neat, though quaint black dress having taken the place of the much-bellied flounces, she now looked far more ladylike. She held in her hand a tumbler of pepper and water, and begged her visitor to drink, assuring her it would warm her stomach and prevent her taking cold. And when Gertrude, who could only with great difficulty keep from laughing in her face, declined the beverage, Miss Paddy seated herself, and while enjoying the refreshment, carried on a conversation which at one moment satisfied her visitor she was a woman of sense, and the next persuaded her that she was either foolish or insane. The impression which Gertrude made upon Miss Paddy, however, was more decided. Miss Paddy was delighted with the young Miss, who she declared possessed an intellect that would do honour to a queen, a figure that was airy as a gazelle, and motions more graceful than those of a swan. When George came for Gertrude, Miss Pace, who seemed really sorry to part with her, cordially invited her to come again, and Gertrude promised to do so. The satisfactory news from Willie, and the amusing adventures of the afternoon, had given to Gertrude such a feeling of buoyancy and lightheartedness that she bounded into the house and up the stairs, with that very quickness Uncle True had so loved to see in her, and which, since his death, her subdued spirits had rarely permitted her to exercise. She hastened to her own room to remove her bonnet and change her dress before seeking Emily, to whom she longed to communicate the events of the day. At the door of her room she met Bridget, the housemaid, with a dustpan, hand broom, etc. On inquiring what was going on there at this unusual hour, she learned that during her absence her room, which had, since the removal, been in some confusion, owing to Mrs. Ellis not having decided what furniture should be placed there, had been subjected to a thorough and comprehensive system of spring cleaning. Alarmed, though she scarcely knew why, at the idea of Mrs. Ellis having invaded her premises, she surveyed the apartment with a slight feeling of agitation, which, as she continued her observations, swelled into a storm of angry excitement. When Gertrude went from Mrs. Sullivan's to Mr. Graham's house in the city, she carried with her beside a trunk containing her wardrobe, an old band box which she stored away on the shelf of a closet in her chamber. There it remained during the winter, unpacked and unobserved by any one. When the family went into the country, however, the box went also, carefully watched and protected by its owner. As there was no closet or other hiding place in Gertrude's new room, she placed it in a corner behind the bed, and the evening before her expedition to the city, had been engaged in removing and inspecting a part of its contents. Each article was endeared to her by the charm of old association, and many a tear had the little maiden shed over her stock of valuables. There was the figure of the Samuel, Uncle True's first gift, now defaced by time and accident. As she surveyed a severe contusion on the back of the head, the effect of an inadvertent knock given to it by True himself, and remembered how patiently the dear old man labored to repair the injury, she felt that she would not part with a much-valued memento for the world. There, too, were his pipes, of common clay, and dark with smoke and age, but as she thought how much comfort they had been to him, she felt that the possession of them was a consolation to her. She had brought away, too, his lantern, for she had not forgotten its pleasant light, the first that ever fell upon the darkness of her life, nor could she leave behind an old fur cap, beneath which she had often saw a kindly smile, and never having sought in vain, could hardly realize that there was not one for her still hidden beneath its crown. There were some toys, too, and picture books, gifts from Willie, a little basket he had carved for her from a nut, and a few other trifles. All these things, excepting the lantern and cab, Gertrude had left upon the mantelpiece, and now upon entering the room, her eye at once sought her treasures. They were gone. The mantelpiece was nicely dusted, and quite empty. She ran towards the corner where she had left the old box. That, too, was gone. Too rush after the retreating housemaid, call her back, and pour forth a succession of eager inquiries, was but the work of an instant. Bridget was a newcomer, a remarkably stupid specimen, but Gertrude contrived to obtain from her all the information she needed. The image, the pipes in the lantern, were thrown among a heap of broken glass and crockery, and, as Bridget declared, smashed all to nothing. The cap, pronounced Mothian, had been condemned to the flames, and the other articles, Bridget could not be sure. But, troth, she belaved she was just after leaving them in the fireplace, and all this in strict accordance with Mrs. Ellis's orders. Gertrude allowed Bridget to depart unaware of the greatness of her loss. Then, shutting the door, she threw herself upon the bed, and gave way to a violent fit of weeping. So this, thought she, was the reason why Mrs. Ellis was so willing to forward my plans, and I was foolish enough to believe it was for my own sake. She wanted to come here and rob me, the thief. She rose from the bed as suddenly as she had thrown herself down, and started for the door. Then, some new thought seeming to check her, she returned again to the bedside, and with a loud sob fell upon her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Once or twice she lifted her head, and seemed on the point of rising and going to face her enemy. But each time, something came across her mind and detained her. It was not fear. Oh, no, Gertrude was not afraid of anybody. It must have been some stronger motive than that. Whatever it might be, it was something that had, on the whole, a soothing influence. For after every fresh struggle she grew calmer, and presently rising, seated herself in a chair by the window, leaned her head on her hand, and looked out. The window was open, the shower was over, and the smiles of the refreshed and beautiful earth were reflected in a glowing rainbow that spanned the eastern horizon. A little bird came, and perched on a branch of a tree close to the window, and shouted forth a tadium. A Persian lilac bush and fall bloom sent up a delicious fragrance. A wonderful composure stole into Gertrude's heart, and ere she had sat there many minutes, she felt the grace that brings peace succeed to the passions that produce trouble. She had conquered, she had achieved the greatest of earth's victories, a victory over herself. The brilliant rainbow, the carol of the bird, the fragrance of the blossoms, all the bright things that gladdened the earth after the storm, were not half so beautiful, as the light that overspread the face of the young girl when, the storm within her laid at rest, she looked up to heaven, and her heart sent forth its silent offering of praise. The sound of the tea-bell startled her. She hastened to bathe her face in brush her hair, and then went downstairs. There was no one in the dining-room but Mrs. Ellis. Mr. Graham had been detained in town, and Emily was suffering with a severe headache. Consequently Gertrude took tea alone with Mrs. Ellis. The latter, though unaware of the great value Gertrude attached to her old relics, was conscious she had done an unkind thing, and as the injured party gave no evidence of anger or ill-will, not even mentioning the subject, the aggressor felt more uncomfortable and mortified than she would have been willing to allow. The matter was never recurred to, but Mrs. Ellis experienced a stinging consciousness of the fact that Gertrude had shown a superiority to herself in point of forbearance. The next day Mrs. Prince, the cook, came to the door of Emily's room, and, obtaining a ready admittance, produced the little basket made of a knot saying, I wonder now, Miss Emily, where Miss Gertrude is, for I found her little basket in the coal-hod, and I guess she'll be right glad on it, taint her a mite. Emily inquired, what basket, and the cook, placing it in her hands, proceeded with eagerness to give an account of the destruction of Gertrude's property, which she herself had witnessed with great indignation. She also gave a piteous description of the distress the young girl manifested in her questioning of Bridget, which the sympathizing cook had overheard from her own not very distant chamber. As Emily listened to the story, she well remembered having thought, the previous afternoon, that she heard Gertrude sobbing in her room, which on one side adjoined her own, but that afterwards she concluded herself to have been mistaken. Go, said she, and carry the basket to Gertrude. She is in the little library, but please, Mrs. Prime, don't tell her that you have mentioned the matter to me. Emily expected, for several days, to hear from Gertrude the story of her injuries, but Gertrude kept her trouble to herself and bore it in silence. This was the first instance of complete self-control in Gertie, and the last we shall have occasioned dwell upon. From this time she continued to experience, more and more, the power of governing herself, and with each new effort gaining new strength, became at last a wonder to those who knew the temperament she had had to contend with. She was now nearly fourteen years old, and so rapid had been her recent growth, that instead of being below the usual stature, she was taller than most girls of her age. Freedom from study, and plenty of air and exercise, prevented her, however, from suffering from the circumstance. Her garden was a source of great pleasure to her, and flowers seeming to prosper under her careful training, she had always a bouquet ready to place by Emily's plate at breakfast time. Occasionally she went to see her friend Ms. Paddy Pace, and always met with a cordial reception. Ms. Paddy's attention was very much engrossed by the manufacture of paper flowers, and as Gertrude's garden furnished the models, she seldom went empty-handed. But the old lady's success, being very ill-proportioned to her efforts, it would have been a libel upon nature to pronounce even the most favorable specimens of this sort of fancy work, true copies of the original. Ms. Paddy was satisfied, however, and it is to be hoped that her various friends, for whom the large bunches were intended that traveled about tied to her waist by the green string, were satisfied also. Ms. Paddy seemed to have a great many friends. Judging from the numbers of people that she talked about to Gertrude, the latter concluded she must be acquainted with everybody in Boston. And it would have been hard to find anyone whose intercourse expanded to a wider circle. She had, in her youth, learned an upholsterer's trade, which she had practiced for many years in the employment, as she said, of the first families in the city, and so observing was she, and so acute in her judgment, that a report at one time prevailed that Ms. Pace had eyes in the back of her head and two pairs of ears. Notwithstanding her wonderful visionary and comprehending powers, she had never been known to make mischief in families. She was prudent and conscientious, and though always peculiar in her habits and modes of expression, and so wild in some of her fancies, as to be often thought by strangers a little out, she had secured and continued to retain the goodwill of a great many kindly disposed ladies and gentlemen, at whose houses she was always well received and politely treated. She calculated, in the course of every year, to go the rounds among all these friends, and thus kept up her intimacy with households in every member of which she felt a warm personal interest. Ms. Patti labored under one great and absorbing regret, and frequently expatiated to Gertrude on the subject. It was that she was without a companion. Ms. Gertrude, she would sometimes exclaim, seeming for the time quite forgetful of her age and infirmities. I should do vastly well in this world if I only had a companion. And here, with a slight toss of the head and a little smirking air, she would add in a whisper, and you must know, my dear, I somewhat meditate metrimony. Then, seeing Gertrude's look of surprise and amusement, she would apologize for having so long delayed fulfilling what had always been her intention, and at the same time that she admitted not being as young as she had once been, would usually close with the remark. It is true, time is inexorable, but I cling to life, Ms. Gertrude. I cling to life, and may marry yet. On the subject of fashion, too, she would decline at great length, avowing, for her own part, a rigid determination to be modern, whatever the cost might be. Gertrude could not fail to observe that she had failed in this intention, as signally, as in that of securing a youthful swain. And she was also gradually led to conclude that Ms. Pace, whatever might be her means, was a terrible miser. Emily, who knew the old lady very well, and had often employed her, did not oppose Gertrude's visits to the cottage, and sometimes accompanied her. For Emily loved to be amused, and Ms. Paddy's quaint conversation was as great a treat to her as to Gertrude. These calls were so promptly returned that it was made very evident that Ms. Paddy preferred doing the greater part of the visiting herself, observing which Emily gave her a general invitation to the house, of which she was not slow to avail herself. CHAPTER XIX More health, dear maid, thy soothing presence brings, than purest skies, or salutary springs. Mrs. Burald Persons who own residences within six miles of a large city cannot be properly said to enjoy country life. They have large gardens, often times extensive grounds, and raise their own fruit and vegetables. They usually keep horses, drive about, and take the air. Some maintain quite a barnyard establishment, and pride themselves upon their fat cattle, and Shanghai fowls. But after all, these suburban residents do not taste the charms of true country life. There are no pathless woods, no roaring brooks, no waving fields of grain, no wide stretches of pastureland. Every eminence commands a view of the near metropolis, the home of which is almost audible, and every hourly omnibus, or train of cars, carries one self, or one's neighbor, to or from the busy mart. Those who seek retirement and seclusion, however, can nowhere be more sure to find it than in one of these half country, half city homes. And many a family will, summer after summer, resort to the same quiet corner, and, undisturbed by visitors or gossip, maintain an independence of life which would be quite impossible, either in the crowded streets of the town where one's acquaintances are forever dropping in, or in the strictly country villages where every newcomer is observed, called upon and talked about. Mr. Graham's establishment was of the medium order, and little calculated to attract notice. The garden was certainly very beautiful, abounding in rich shrubbery, summer houses, and arbors covered with grapevines. But a high-board fence hid it from public view, and the house, standing back from the road, was rather old-fashioned, and very unobtrusive in its appearance. Accepting his horticultural propensities, Mr. Graham's associations were all connected with the city, and Emily, being unfitted for much general intercourse with society, entertained little company, save that of the neighbors who made formal calls, and some particular friends, such as Mr. Arnold, the clergyman, and a few intimates, who often towards evening drove out of town to see Emily and eat fruit. The summer was passing away most happily, and Gertrude, in the constant enjoyment of Emily's society, and in the consciousness that she was, in various ways, rendering herself useful and important to this excellent friend, was finding in every day new causes of contentment and rejoicing, when a seal was suddenly set to all her pleasure. Emily was taken ill with a fever, and Gertrude, on occasion of her first undertaking to enter the Sychrom, and share in its duties, was rudely repulsed by Mrs. Ellis, who had constituted herself sole nurse, and who declared, when the poor girl pleaded hard to be admitted, that the fever was catching, and Miss Emily did not want her there, that when she was sick she never wanted anyone about her but herself. For three or four days Gertrude wandered about the house, inconsolable. On the fifth morning after her banishment from the room, she saw Mrs. Prime, the cook, going upstairs with some gruel, and thrusting into her hand some beautiful rose buds, which she had just gathered. She begged her to give them to Emily, and ask if she might not come in and see her. She lingered about the kitchen, awaiting Mrs. Prime's return, in hopes of some message, at least from the sufferer, but when the cook came down the flowers were still in her hand, and as she threw them on the table the kind-hearted woman gave vent to her feelings. Well, folks do say that first-rate cooks and nurses are allers as crosses-bears, taint for me to say whether it's so about cooks, but about nurses there ain't no sort of doubt. I would not want to go there, Miss Gertrude. I wouldn't ensure you but what she'd bite your head off. Wouldn't Miss Emily take the flowers? asked Gertrude, looking quite grieved. Well, she hadn't no word in the matter. You know she couldn't see what they were, and Miss Ellis flung them outside the door, thou and I might as well bring pison into the room with a fever, as them roses. I tried to speak to Miss Emily, but Miss Ellis set up such a hush. I supposed she was going to sleep, and just made the best of my way out. Ugg, don't she scold when there's anybody sick? Gertrude sauntered out into the garden. She had nothing to do but think anxiously about Emily, who she feared was very ill. Her work and her books were all in Emily's room, where they were usually kept. The library might have furnished amusement, but it was locked up. So the garden was the only thing left for her, and there she spent the rest of the morning, and not that morning only, but many others, for Emily continued to grow worse, and a fortnight passed away without Gertrude seeing her, or having any other intimation regarding her health than Mrs. Ellis' occasional report to Mr. Graham, who, however, as he saw the physician every day, and made frequent visits to his daughter himself, did not require that particular information which Gertrude was eager to obtain. Once or twice she had ventured to question Mrs. Ellis, whose only reply was, Don't bother me with questions. What do you know about sickness? One afternoon Gertrude was sitting in a large summer house at the lower end of the garden. Her own piece of ground, fragrance with mignonnette and rubina, was close by, and she was busily engaged in tying up and marking some little papers of seeds, the gleaning from various seed vessels. When she was startled by hearing a step close beside her, and looking up, saw Dr. Jeremy, the family physician, just entering the building. Ah, what are you doing? exclaimed the doctor, in a quick, abrupt manner, peculiar to him. Sorting seeds, eh? Yes, sir, replied Gertrude, looking up and blushing as she saw the doctor's keen black eyes scrutinizing her face. Where have I seen you before? asked he, in the same blunt way. At Mr. Flint's. Ah, true Flint's. I remember all about it. You're his girl. Nice girl, too. And poor true he's dead. Well, he's a loss to the community. So this is the little nurse I used to see there. Bless me, how children do grow. Dr. Jeremy, asked Gertrude, in an earnest voice, will you please to tell me how Miss Emily is? Emily, she ain't very well just now. Do you think she'll die? Die? No. What should she die for? I won't let her die, if you'll help me keep her alive. Why ain't you in the house taking care of her? I wish I might, exclaimed Gertrude, starting up. I wish I might. What's to hinder? Mrs. Ellis, sir. She won't let me in. She says Miss Emily doesn't want anybody but her. She's nothing to say about it, or Emily either. It's my business, and I want you. I'd rather have you to take care of my patients than all the Mrs. Ellis's in the world. She doesn't know anything about nursing. Let her stick to her cranberry sauce and squash pies. So mind, tomorrow you're to begin. Oh, thank you, doctor. Don't thank me yet. Wait till you've tried it. It's hard work taking care of sick folks. Whose orchard is that? Mrs. Bruce's. Is that her pear tree? Yes, sir. By George, Mrs. Bruce, I'll try your pears for you. As he spoke, the doctor, a man some 65 years of age, stout and active, sprung over a stone wall. Which separated them from the orchard, and carried along by the impetus the leap had given him, reached the foot of the tree almost at a bound. As Gertrude, full of mirth, watched the proceeding, she observed the doctor stumble over some obstacle, and only save himself from falling by stretching forth both hands, and sustaining himself against the huge trunk of the fine old tree. At the same instant, a head, adorned with a velvet smoking cap, was slowly lifted from the long grass, and a youth, about sixteen or seventeen years of age, raised himself upon his elbow, and stared at the unlooked for intruder. Nothing daunted, the doctor at once took offensive ground towards the occupant of the place, saying, Get up, lazy bones, which you lie there for, tripping up honest folks. Who do you call honest folks, sir? Enquired the youth, apparently quite undisturbed by the doctor's epithet, and inquiry. I call myself, and my little friend here, remarkably honest people, replied the doctor, winking at Gertrude, who, standing behind the wall and looking over, was laughing heartily at the way in which the doctor had got caught. The young man, observing the direction of the latter's eyes, turned, and gave a broad stare at Gertrude's merry face. Can I do anything for you, sir? asked he. Yes, certainly, replied the doctor. I came here to help myself to pairs, but you are taller than I. Perhaps, with the help of that crooked-handled cane of yours, you can reach that best branch. A remarkably honorable and honest errand, muttered the young man, I shall be happy to be engaged and so good a cause. As he spoke, he lifted his cane, which lay by his side, and, drawing down the end of the branch, so that he could reach it with his hand, shook it vigorously. The ripe fruit fell on every side, and the doctor, having filled his pockets, and both his hands, started for the other side of the wall. Have you got enough? asked the youth, in a very lazy tone of voice. Plenty, plenty, said the doctor. Glad of it, said the boy, indolently throwing himself on the grass, and still staring at Gertrude. You must be very tired, said the doctor, stepping back a pace or two. I'm a physician, and should advise a nap. Are you indeed? replied the youth, in the same, half-drawling, half-ironical tone of voice, in which he had previously spoken. Then I think I'll take your advice, saying which he threw himself back upon the grass, and closed his eyes. Having emptied his pockets upon the sea of the summer house, and invited Gertrude to partake, the doctor, still laughing so immoderately, at his boyish feet, that he could scarcely eat the fruit, happened to be think himself of the lateness of the hour. He looked at his watch. Half-past four, the cars go in ten minutes. Who's going to drive me down to the depot? I don't know, sir, replied Gertrude, to whom the question seemed to be addressed. Where's George? He's gone to the meadow to get in some hay, but he left white Charlie harnessed in the yard. I saw him fasten him to the chain, after he drove you up from the cars. Ah, then you can drive me down to the depot. I can't, sir. I don't know how. But you must. I'll show you how. You're not afraid. Oh, no, sir. But, Mr. Graham. Never you mind, Mr. Graham. Do you mind me? I'll answer for your coming back safe enough. Gertrude was naturally courageous. She had never driven before. But having no fears, she succeeded admirably, and being often afterwards called upon by Dr. Jeremy to perform the same service. She soon became skillful in the use of the reins. An accomplishment not always particularly desirable in a lady, but which, in her case, proved very useful. Dr. Jeremy was true to his promise of installing Gertrude in Emily's sick room. The very next visit he made to his patient, he spoke in terms of the highest praise of Gertrude's devotion to her old uncle, and her capability as a nurse, and asked why she had been expelled from the chamber. She is timid, said Emily, and is afraid of catching the fever. Don't believe it, said Jeremy. Taint like her. Do you think not, inquired Emily, earnestly. Mrs. Ellis told a lie, interrupted the doctor. Gertie wants to come and take care of you, and she knows how, as well as Mrs. Ellis, any day. It isn't much you need done. You want quiet, and that's what you can't have, with that great talking woman about. So I'll send her to Jericho today, and bring my little Gertrude up here. She's a quiet little mouse, and has got a head on her shoulders. It is not to be supposed that Gertrude could provide for Emily's wants any better, or even as well, as Mrs. Ellis. And Emily, knowing this, took care that the housekeeper should not be sent to Jericho. For, though Dr. Jeremy, a man of strong prejudices, did not like her, she was excellent in her department, and could not be dispensed with. Had it been otherwise, Emily would not have hurt her feelings by letting her see that she was in any degree superseded. So, though Emily, Dr. Jeremy, and Gertrude were all made happy by the free admission of the letter to the sick-room, the housekeeper, unhandsomely as she had behaved, was never conscious that anyone knew the wrong she had done to Gertrude, and keeping her out of sight, and giving a false reason for her continued absence. There was a watchfulness, a care, a tenderness, in Gertrude, which only the warmest love could have dictated. When Emily awoke at night from a troubled sleep, found a quilling draw ready at her lips, and knew from Mrs. Ellis' deep snoring that it was not her hand that held it. When she observed that all day long no troublesome fly was ever permitted to approach her pillow, her aching head was relieved by hours of patient bathing, and the little feet that were never weary were always noiseless. She realized the truth, that Dr. Jeremy had brought her a most excellent medicine. A week or two passed away, and she was well enough to sit up nearly all the time, though not yet able to leave her room. A few weeks more, and the doctor began to insist upon air and exercise. Drive out two or three times every day, said he. How can I? said Emily. George has so much to do, it will be very inconvenient. Let Gertrude drive you, she has a capital hand. Gertrude, said Emily, smiling. I believe you are a great favor of the doctors. He thinks you can do every— He thinks you can do anything. You never drove in your life, did you? Hasn't she driven me to the depot every day for these six weeks? inquired the doctor. Is it possible? asked Emily, who was unaccustomed to the idea of a lady's attempting the management of a horse. Upon her being assured that this was the case, and the doctor insisting that there was no danger, Charlie was harnessed into the carry-all, and Emily and Mrs. Ellis went out to drive with Gertrude. An experiment which, being often repeated, was a source of health to the invalid, and a pleasure to them all. In the early autumn, when Emily's health was quite restored, old Charlie was daily called into requisition. Sometimes Mrs. Ellis accompanied them. But as she was often engaged about household duties, they usually went by themselves, and a large old-fashioned buggy. And Emily declared that Gertrude's learning to drive had proved one of the greatest sources of happiness she had known for years. Once or twice, in the course of the summer and autumn, Gertrude saw again the lazy youth, whom Dr. Jeremy had stumbled over when he went to steal pears. Once he came and sat on the wall while she was at work in her garden. Professor himself astonished at her activity, talked a little with her about the flowers, asked some questions concerning her friend Dr. Jeremy, and ended by requesting to know her name. Gertrude blushed. She was a little sensitive about her name, and though she always went by that of Flint, and did not, on ordinary occasions, think much about it, she could not fail to remember when the question was put to her point blank, that she had, in reality, no surname of her own. Emily had endeavored to find Nan Grant in order to learn from her something of Gertrude's early history, but Nan had left her old habitation, and for years nothing had been heard of her. Gertrude, as we have said, blushed on being asked her name, but replied with dignity that she would tell hers, provided her new acquaintance would return the compliment. Shant do it, said the youth impudently, and don't care about knowing yours either, saying which he kicked an apple with his foot and walked off, still kicking it before him, leaving Gertrude to the conclusion that he was the most ill-bred person she had ever seen.